and yet, with a vexed heart, he vainly strove to solve a mystery which
thus seemed to surround Virginia and himself, who, until a few days
before, had been entire strangers to each other.

"Alfred Bernard," said the old man at length, with his sweet gentle
voice, "do you remember your father? You are very like him."

"How can you ask me such a question, when you yourself have told me so
often that I never saw him."

"True, I had forgotten," returned Hutchinson, with a sigh, "but your
mother you remember?"

"Oh yes," said the young man, with a tear starting in his eye, "I can
never forget her sad, pensive countenance. I have been a wild, bad man,
Mr. Hutchinson, but often in my darkest hours, the memory of my mother
would come over me, as though her spirit, like a dove, was descending
from her place in heaven to watch over her boy. Alas! I feel that if I
had followed the precepts which she taught me, I would now be a better
and a happier man."

No heart is formed entirely hard; there are moments and memories which
melt the most obdurate heart, as the wand of the prophet smote water
from the rock. And Alfred Bernard, with all his cold scepticism and
selfish nature, was for a moment sincerely repentant.

"I have often thought, Mr. Hutchinson," he continued, "that if it had
pleased heaven to give me some near relative on earth, around whom my
heart could delight to cling, I would have been a better man. Some kind
brother who could aid and sympathize with me in my struggle with the
world, or some gentle sister, in whose love I could confide, and to
whose sweet society I might repair from the bitter trials of this rugged
life; if these had been vouchsafed me, my heart would have expanded into
more sympathy with my race than it can ever now feel."

Hutchinson smiled sadly, and replied--

"It has been my object in life, Alfred Bernard, to supply the place of
those nearer and dearer objects of affection which have been denied you.
I hope in this I have not been unsuccessful."

"I am aware, Mr. Hutchinson," said Bernard, bitterly, "that to you I am
indebted for my education and support. I hope I have ever manifested a
becoming sense of gratitude, and I only regret that in this alone am I
able to repay you."

"And do you think that I wished to remind you of your dependence,
Alfred? Oh, no--you owe me nothing. I have discharged towards you a
solemn, a sacred duty, which you had a right to claim. I took you, a
little h